A Book for the Young Part 1

A Book For The Young.

by Sarah French.

PREFACE.

COURTEOUS READER,

In offering a second effort from her pen, the Writer begs, most humbly, to deprecate all criticism; for much of which, there will, doubtless, be found ample room.

This little book has been written in the hope that notwithstanding its many imperfections, it will not be altogether useless to those for whom it is especially intended,--the Young; and should the Auth.o.r.ess fail in effecting all the good she desires, she trusts, she may take refuge under the negative merit, of not having written one word that _can_ do _harm_.

If it be objected to, that the Poetry is not original; it is, she would beg to say, not only good, but far better than that which, had it depended on her own efforts, could have been in its place. It will be seen that the Book was intended to have been brought out for Christmas and New Year's Days: this desirable end could not be accomplished, but as recommended to do, she has inserted the "Address to the Young."

AN ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG.

A heartfelt greeting to you, my young friends; a merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you all. Of all the three hundred and sixty-five days none are fraught with the same interest--there is not one on which all mankind expect so great an amount of enjoyment, as those we now celebrate: for all now try not only to be happy themselves, but to make others so too. All consider themselves called on to endeavour to add to the aggregate of human happiness. Those who have been estranged, now forget their differences and hold out the hand of amity; even the wretched criminal and incarcerated are not forgotten.

Yes, to both the Christian and the worlding, it is equally the season for rejoicing. Oh yes! view them in any of their bearings, joyful are the days that mark the anniversary of the Redeemer's Nativity, and the commencement of the New Year. Fast as the last twelve months have sped their circling course, yet they have, brought changes to many. Numbers of those we so gaily greeted at their beginning, now sleep in the silent dust, and the places they filled know them no more! And we are spared, the monuments of G.o.d's mercy; and how have we improved that mercy, I would ask? or how do we purpose doing it? Have such of us as have enjoyed great and perhaps increased blessings, been taught by them to feel more grat.i.tude to the Giver of all good. If the sun of prosperity has shone more brightly, has our desire to do good been in any way proportionate. Has G.o.d in his infinite wisdom seen fit to send us trials,--have they done their work, have they brought us nearer to Him, have they told us this is not our abiding place, have they shown us the instability of earthly happiness? Have you reflected for one moment, amidst your late rejoicings, of the hundreds whose hearths have been desolated by cruel but necessary war, and then with a full and grateful heart humbly thanked the G.o.d who has not only spared you these heavy inflictions, but preserved all near and dear to you.

Oh ye young and happy! have you looked around you and thought of all this, and then knelt in thankfulness for the blessings spared you?

Remembering _all this_, have ye on bended knees prayed, and fervently, that this day may be the epoch on which to date your resolves to be and to do better. Oh, may the present period be eventful, greatly eventful, for time and eternity.

Let us pause awhile ere we commence another year, and take a retrospective glance at the past. Can we bear to do so, or will day after day, and hour after hour, rise up in judgment against us? Can we bear to bring them into debtor and creditor account,--what offsets can we make against those devoted to sin and frivolity?

Has every blessing and every mercy been taken as a matter of course, and every pleasure been enjoyed with a thankless forgetfulness of the hand from which it flowed? If such has been the case, let it be so no longer; but awake and rouse ye from your lethargic slumber, be true to yourselves, and remember that you are responsible beings, and will have to account for all the time and talents misspent and misapplied.

Reflect seriously on the true end of existence and no longer fritter it away in vanity and folly. Think of all the good you might have done, not only by individual exertion, but by the influence of your example. Then reverse the picture and ask if much evil may not actually have occurred through these omissions in you.

To many of you too, life now presents a very different aspect to what it did in the commencement of the year. A most important day has dawned, and momentous duties devolved on you. The ties that bound you to the homes of your youth have been severed, and new ones formed, aye stronger ones than even to the mother that bare you. Yes, there is one who is now _dearer_ than the parent who cherished, or the sister who grew up with you, and shared your father's hearth. Oh! could I now but impress upon your minds, how much, how _very much_ of your happiness depends on the way you begin. If I could but make you sensible how greatly doing so might soften the trials of after life. Trials? I hear each of you exclaim in joyous doubt, What trials? I am united to the object of my dearest affections; friends all smile on, and approve my choice; plenty crowns our board: have I not made a league with sorrow that it should not come near our dwelling? I hope not; for it might lead you to forget the things that belong to your peace. I should tremble for you, could I fancy a life-long period without a trouble.

You are mortal and could not bear it, with safety to your eternal well-being. This life being probationary, G.o.d has wisely ordained it a chequered one. Happy, thoroughly happy as you may be now, you are not invulnerable to the shafts of sorrow;--think how very many are the inlets through which trial may enter, and pray that whenever and however a.s.sailed, you may as a Christian, sanctify whatever befalls you to your future good.

But while prepared to meet those ills "the flesh is heir to" as becomes a Christian, it is well to remember that you may greatly diminish many of the troubles of life, by forbearance and self-command, for certain it is, that more than one half of mankind make a great deal of what they suffer, and which they might avoid.

Yes, much of what they endure are actually self inflictions.

There is a general, and alas! too true an outcry, that trouble is the lot of all, and that "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward;" but let me ask, Is there not a vast amount made by ourselves?

and do we not often take it up in antic.i.p.ation, too often indulge and give way to it, when by cheerful resignation, we might, if not wholly avert, yet greatly nullify its power to mar our peace. Mind, I now speak of self-created and minor troubles; not those coming immediately from G.o.d. Are we not guilty of ingrat.i.tude in acting thus; in throwing away, or as it were thrusting from us the blessings he has sent--merely by indulging in, or giving way to these minor trials. It may be said of these sort of troubles, as of difficulties, "Stare them in the face, and you conquer them; yield to, and they overcome you, and form unnecessary suffering."

If we could only consider a little when things annoy us, and reflect how much worse they might be, and how differently they would affect us even under less favourable circ.u.mstances than those in which we are placed; but instead of making the best of every thing, we only dwell on the annoyance, regardless of many extenuations that may attend it.

As one of the means to happiness, I would beg of you, my fair young Brides, not to fix too high a standard by which to measure either the perfections of your beloved partners or your own hopes of being happy.

Bear in mind that those to whom you are united are subject to the same infirmities as yourself. Look well to what are your requirements as wives, and then prayerfully and steadily act up to them, and if your hopes are not built too high, you may, by acting rightly and rationally, find a well spring of peace and enjoyment that _must_ increase. Think what very proud feelings will be yours, to find you are appreciated and esteemed for the good qualities of the heart and endowments of the mind, and to hear after months of trial, the _wife_ p.r.o.nounced _dearer_ than the _bride_.

Look around at the many who have entered the pale of matrimony before you, equally buoyant with hope; with the same loving hearts and the same bright prospects as you had,--and yet the stern realities of life have sobered down that romance of feeling with which they started; yet they are perhaps more happy, though it is a quiet happiness, founded on esteem. Oh, you know not the extent to which the conduct I have urged you to pursue, may affect your well-being, and that of him to whom you are united.

And now with the same greeting I commenced with, will I take my leave--a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, and may each succeeding return find you progressing in all that can give you peace and happiness, not only here but hereafter!

THE DYING HORSE.

Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess!

How muscular the giant's arm must be To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the earth!

Yet, hold, he rises!--no--the struggle's vain; His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed Upon the very turf where late he fed.

His writhing fibres speak his inward pain!

His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!

Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins.

Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge, See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod With the velocity of lightning. Ah!-- He rises,--triumphs;--yes, the victory's his!

No--the wrestler Death again has thrown him And--oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall!

Soft!--he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan, Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death Exulting in his conquest! I know not, But if 'twas his, it surely was his last; For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe?

Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!

How still he's now! how fiery hot--how cold How terrible! How lifeless! all within A few brief moments!--My reason staggers!

Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard, Who canst for every thing a.s.sign a cause, Here take thy stand beside me, and explain This hidden mystery. Bring with thee The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven And impiously ascribes events to chance, To help to solve this wonderful enigma!

First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners, Where the vast strength this creature late possessed Has fled to? how the bright sparkling fire, Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes Has been extinguished? Oh--he's dead you say.

I know it well:--but how, and by what means?

Was it the arm of chance that struck him down, In height of vigor, and in pride of strength, To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me: Nay shake not thus the head's that are enriched With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books, From nights of study, and the magazines Of knowledge, which your predecessors left.

What! not a word!--I ask you, once again, How comes it that the wond'rous essence, Which gave such vigour to these strong nerved limbs Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled This n.o.ble workmans.h.i.+p of nature, thus To sink Into a cold inactive clod?

Nay sneak not off thus cowardly--poor fools Ye are as dest.i.tute of information As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!

The _subject of my thoughts_? Yes--there he lies As free from life, as if he ne'er had lived.

Where are his friends and where his old acquaintance Who borrowed from his strength, when in the yoke, With weary pace the steep ascent they climbed?

Where are the gay companions of his prime, Who with him ambled o'er the flowery turf, And proudly snorting, pa.s.sed the way worn hack, With haughty brow; and, on his ragged coat Looked with contemptuous scorn? Oh yonder see, Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun They lie, and heed him not;--little thinking While there they triumph in the blaze of noon.

How soon the dread annihilating hour Will come, and death seal up their eyes, Like his, forever. Now moralizer Retire! yet first proclaim this sacred truth; _Chance_ rules not over Death; but, when a fly Falls to the earth, 'tis _Heaven_ that gives the blow.

--BLACKETT.

COQUETRY.

It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on the banks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an open cas.e.m.e.nt, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis and honey-suckle. The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps not so much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, which plainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there than time alone could have done. The younger, an interesting girl of nineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were both dressed in deep mourning. The room which they occupied, though plainly and simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance.

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in the East Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means of support than a small annuity and her pension. An old servant of her own had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchased his discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he had been brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his native place, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain's death wrote to Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot, but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding by saying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonable terms. Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it. Though a common looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making a few alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering, was transformed into a pretty cottage. The work required was an advantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thus prevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respects too, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to the little village in which we find her--and the good she found to do, was the greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive: for though her means were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay before her.

Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and though her trial was hard, very hard to bear, she remembered from whom it came, and not a murmur escaped her. Devotedly attached to her husband, she deeply lamented her loss, still she sorrowed not as one without hope: she had the consolation of knowing few were better prepared for the change; and she strove to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her grief would have been augmented, were not such the case. But she felt that her s.h.i.+eld had been taken from her; and knowing how precarious was her own health, she saw how desolate would be her child, should it please G.o.d to remove her also, but a true Christian cannot mourn long; and as the tears of agony would force themselves down her cheek, and her feelings almost overpower her, she flew to her bible and in its gracious promises to the afflicted, found that support and consolation, the mere worldling can neither judge of, nor taste. Some delay, though no actual doubt, as to ultimately obtaining her pension, had caused inconvenience, as all their ready money had been absorbed in the alterations of their house, though they had observed the utmost economy, and demands were made which they had not at the time funds to meet. Ethelind was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against all, trusting something would turn up,--and so it did; for while discussing the matter, a letter came, with an enclosure, from an old school fellow, begging them to procure her board and lodging in the village for a few months, intimating how much she would like it, if they could accommodate her themselves. The terms for the first quarter were highly remunerative and they gladly acceded to Miss Trevor's proposition, and the few requisite preparations being made, we will, if our reader pleases, go back to the evening when mother and daughter sat awaiting the arrival of their new inmate.

Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice Trevor, but Ethelind was loud in her praises. They sat in anxious expectation much beyond the usual time for the arrival of the stage, and were just giving her up for the night, when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and a post chaise drove up, out of which sprang a young lady who in another moment was clasped in Ethelind's arms, and introduced to her mother, who welcomed her most kindly.

"Oh what a little Paradise!" said Beatrice, looking round her, "how happy you must be here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep outside ere daylight is gone;" so saying, she darted through the French cas.e.m.e.nt, on to the lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge. "Well I declare, this is a perfect Elysium, I am so glad I made up my mind to come here, instead of going with the Fultons to Cheltenham."